The Beggar’s Garden
STORIES
Michael Christie
For Cedar
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Emergency Contact
Discard
Goodbye Porkpie Hat
The Queen of Cans and Jars
The Extra
An Ideal Companion
King Me
The Quie
The Beggar’s Garden
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Publisher
Emergency Contact
They sent the wrong paramedic, one I’d never met before. He had sideburns sculpted into hockey sticks and stunk of canola oil. He was in my doorway with the gulping eyes of a rodent and the shocker thing in a red nylon duffle over his shoulder. His partner was old and wheezed beside him from the three flights of stairs. It had taken me a while to answer the door because I was on the toilet, unable to pee for nervousness. When I stood, my hamstrings went pins and needles and I steadied myself on the towel bar while taking a minute to arrange my hair.
Is the patient inside? Sideburns said, looking primed, as though he’d been about to force the door.
No, I said.
Oh, sorry, he said, deflating. Then he sent a confused glance down the hallway in hopes of spotting the actual emergency.
This is 308, is it not? the old one said.
I’m the patient, I said.
Sideburns took a rapid, teaspoon-sized breath and strode in. They guided me to the floor right there, the old one cradling my neck so my head didn’t snap back, setting it on the bristles of my welcome mat. Then they rolled me to my side and a foamy pillow appeared beneath my ear. A light whipped my eyes. Breathing? someone said, and someone said, Good. I prided myself on my good breathing as I felt the sleeve of my housecoat roll up. Something squeezed my arm like a tiny, forceful hug and then it whooshed. A hand leapt inside my nightgown. Cold metal went on my chest. With someone listening to it, my breath sounded louder to me in my head. I felt like an instrument valuable enough to be measured and checked. There are rules for what they are doing, I thought as they rolled me to my back and I stared into the pagoda-shaped light fixture on the ceiling until it blew out my vision. The old one was still wheezing, like little stones trapped in his chest, and I worried about him then figured if he keeled over then me and Sideburns would just shock him with the shocker thing and he’d be ready for more stairs.
To be honest, I was surprised the fire department hadn’t come. Usually they’re first, especially for something like a heart attack. My stairs pose no problem for them, their lungs like great immaculate bellows after carting miles of hose up twenty-five flights of those training stairs I’ve seen near the highway. Beside the training stairs is a cinder-block building they burn for practice, which they must look forward to, X-ing days off on charity calendars that depict themselves shirtlessly soaping their engine. I picture them bunking down together in a big room, a slide pole in the middle, them bidding each other gruff goodnights, dreaming collectively of their most secret desire, the great inferno worthy of their courage. When they came before, they all had the same moustache and seemed disappointed that I wasn’t on fire or at least dead. To be honest, I prefer the paramedics.
And the paramedic who had come last week I prefer most of all. He’d spoken tenderly and stayed for nearly an hour. After he checked me out, I made him green kool-aid in the plastic jug, stirring it with my wooden spoon that’s stained green from all the times I’ve used it. He sipped, his elbow on my counter, pursing his lips until they disappeared, and said it was a slow night.
I asked him what days he worked.
Four on four off, he said, and I have tomorrow off.
Next came the exciting moment when he said my nightgown was an interesting colour, which meant he liked it very much, because people love to be interested, especially by the slumber-wear of the opposite sex.
I know this because I’ve always had guyfriends. It’s just how I am, I’m a social person. I don’t say boyfriend because I’m not a pedophile. I like grown guys. Men. I once had a guyfriend, a lifeguard at a public pool, who said he loved me for me. If someone tells you they love you for you, it means they will love you as long as you act like who they love—that is who they want to love. So that’s what I did. He said he liked cheerful, so I danced around his house to the radio and made cheerful kinds of food like pies or triple-decker sandwiches. In the end, he told me I loved too hard and that he didn’t love me anymore. This confirmed my suspicion that he was lying the whole time, so I guess I won.
Since the night the paramedic came, I’d passed five days of yearning and rehearsal, the bathroom mirror foggy with the lip grease of practice kiss marks. I’d rearranged the furniture twice, discovering a lively configuration I knew he’d enjoy. Tonight after dinner, I’d put on the same interesting nightgown before dialling 91 at least thirty times, snatching and replacing the phone for over an hour. There should be someone who picks up when you just dial 91, someone reassuring and pleasant, a service for people in almost-emergencies, because that’s what this was, not really in the life-threatening category. I just needed to see someone specific, but it was the sort of longing that could corrode something essential inside me if it stretched out for years. I reminded myself that emergencies are things that emerge, out of nowhere, and that there’s nothing more out of nowhere than love, before raising the phone a final time.
Nine-one-one, police, fire or ambulance? the operator had said, and I heard keys clicking while I envisioned a sportscaster microphone curving from her ear into her wiggling lips.
Definitely ambulance, I said.
Hold please, she said.
Ambulance, a nonchalant-sounding man said. Hello, I said.
Ambulance, he said again right away, exactly the same.
I’d planned on requesting the paramedic directly, but I didn’t know his name and something in the operator’s demeanour suggested an unreceptiveness to such requests, so I decided to take my chances. The important thing was that they’d send one. Fate would handle the rest.
I need an ambulance, I said.
Can you tell me who is in distress, ma’am?
Well … I am.
All right, what kind of symptoms are you experiencing?
My mind starved for something perfect to say, something that wasn’t really a lie, because I’d read in a women’s magazine that lies are toxic to budding relationships.
I’m having a tightness in my chest, I said, which felt as true as anything else at that moment.
You right now yourself, ma’am? How long has this tightness been going on?
Oh, a while now, I said, and my chest ratcheted tighter when he confirmed its tightness by naming it.
Are you experiencing shortness of breath?
Yes, I said, then noticing the rustling in the receiver that was from me.
Are you seated currently?
No I am not.
I’m going to need you to sit down, and please stay on the phone. Then I heard more clicking and he said paramedics were on their way.
Him telling me what to do had me feeling essential, like he couldn’t do this without me, like he needed me, which was true—he couldn’t send an ambulance somewhere if there wasn’t someone there who was waiting for it. I’d always secretly wished for a friend who’d call and give instructions: Bake a cake, he would say, or, Dance to the radio. And he’d speak with such gravity and conviction, I’d comply without any internal complaining or laziness, attaining beautiful, undreamt-of summits of personal fulfillment.
Is your skin pale, cool or moist? the voice said.
I don’t know, I can’t see myself
, I’ll go to the bathroom—
No, ma’am, don’t get up, just stay where you are. Is there any pain? he said.
I listened to my body with my mind like an ear to a railroad track. The rumbling of something began faintly, almost the hush of a seashell, intensifying gradually as it approached, a train en route from a distant city I once knew as my home. My veins began a glacial ache, each of the thousands of bones in my feet felt cracked and prickly, and my organs suddenly seemed misshapen and crammed together all wrong. These discomforts fortified one another until they swarmed me like sickened wasps.
It hurts everywhere, I said, then hung up because I was bored of talking and needed to prepare for my paramedic without some voice I didn’t even know ordering me around.
Vitals are fine, the old guy said. Blood pressure one-twenty-two over eighty.
All this staring into the light on the ceiling made me feel like I was talking to god even though I’ve never been able to believe in him.
Are you new? I said to Sideburns. What do you mean? To the job—I don’t know you. I know what I’m doing, ma’am.
No, I don’t mean—just why haven’t I seen you before?
Oh, I’m new to this district.
I thought so. What’s your name?
He glanced to the old one, who shrugged while ripping velcro. What’s more important right now, ma’am, is how you’re feeling. Is there any pain or tightness here? he said, planting his palm dead centre on my chest, not on my breasts, because I was on my back and they hung at my sides because I am no spring chicken. Like a satellite bouncing important signals back to earth, his hand made it so I could feel the beats. My heart was good and dependable and I felt negligent for not offering it thanks or considering it more often. I desperately hoped it didn’t feel like the rowing slave in the galleon of my body, but I knew I’d forget it again soon, so I told it I was sorry in advance. I think I feel better, I said.
Have you had difficulties with your heart before? Oh yes, I said, many.
When?
In the past, but it’s gone away now, thanks, I said, hoping they’d just leave so I could commence the project of storing up enough courage to call another ambulance.
Well, the old one said, we’re still going to take you to hospital to check you out, do a cardiogram, keep you in for observation.
I don’t want to go anymore, I’m better, I said, then rose, retying my housecoat.
Your call, said Sideburns.
You are not my paramedic, I said, but only to myself. Sideburns’ cool, uncaring nature only proved how special and one-of-a-kind my paramedic really was. He would have taken as long as he needed to convince me of the importance of precaution, of regular checkups and expensive tests just to be sure. He’d have maybe even given me a hug while, of course, being careful it didn’t sail uncontrollably from the shores of compassionate to those of passionate in the way we all know hugs often do.
But if Sideburns left and I called again, they might not send another. They’d smell something fishy because it would be my fourth this month and I knew someone somewhere must keep track. I was already surprised this one had come.
Sideburns reached into his bag and produced a metal clipboard that flipped back. He handed me a pen.
Sign here to deny service, he said, putting his rubber-gloved finger to an X.
My paramedic was working tonight, of this I was sure. I’d counted the days more times than my own toes and had even bought him a greeting card at the dollar store. The prospect of waiting a minute longer was insufferable. All ambulances must eventually go to the hospital—it was the only place I could be sure he’d end up. And how suspicious it would seem if I went there on my own and just waited around.
I looked out the window. A red-bearded man was picking through the dumpster behind my building, a rack of grey cloud over everything. For that moment, I felt a hundred feet tall. Then I shrunk back to my normal size, which is maybe a little heavy but not too shabby.
I think I might want to kill myself, I said.
The other paramedic stopped writing with rubber gloves on in his clipboard and shot his eyes my way. Suddenly the thought of writing anything rubber-gloved depressed me unfathomably. I shut my eyes to appear as depressed as possible and found myself emitting a long, defeated breath like a punctured tire. I decided to keep eyeing the window, approximating a moody philosopher contemplating existence.
Sideburns came closer, plucked the clipboard from my hands.
Let me get this right, he said. You’ve just had a heart attack which you miraculously survived without any apparent complications, not any you’re worried about at least, but now that you are fine you’ve decided you want to kill yourself?
I felt real tears come but not quite enough to make whole drops. They teetered on the edges of my lids as cars do on cliffs in movies. I whipped myself with the thought of never seeing my paramedic again while blinking furiously in order to show Sideburns I meant business, but the drops disappeared like my eyes just drank them.
Yes, that’s right, I said.
Well, do you have a plan?
I paused because pausing means deep consideration. No, I said.
He turned and shot his hands in the air then slapped his thighs. The old guy grabbed the bridge of his nose and wrestled it.
No … actually, yes. I do.
He turned back. Okay. May I ask what it is?
I stuck my hand to my chin like that thinking statue and searched my mind while focusing on my paramedic, realizing I wasn’t even completely lying, I could want to die if I never saw him again and was unable to give him his card. Sideburns was still waiting so I indexed all the suicides I knew of—falling from a bridge, bleeding, eating pills, hanging, rat poison, gun in the mouth—and they each seemed equally terrifying and brave.
I’m going to make myself stop breathing? I said.
And how are you going to do that?
With my mind?
O-kay, he said, and approached his partner for a bit of whispering.
I knew what they were saying, not the words but the general idea. There are laws for this, for what I said. They were serious words, ones they couldn’t ignore. Whether Sideburns liked it or not this was a blood pact we’d made: my saying it, his hearing it. And when he strolled back to me, I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew, going to infinity. He flipped to a fresh sheet in his clipboard and started writing.
How long have you felt like harming yourself, he said, as if reading from a book he detested. Oh sorry, I know the answer to that one—let’s just do this on the way, shall we?
I need to clean up first, I said, and went carting some crumby plates to the sink. Nothing is more depressing—here I mean actually depressing—than returning from hospital to a messy place, but I didn’t say this because I figured from that point the less I spoke, the better for everyone. I rushed to my room to pack. I whipped my interesting nightgown off over my head and wadded it with two others, stuffing the wad with three underwear, a magazine, a hairbrush and medications into a bag. I only needed enough time to find my paramedic, but I liked to be prepared because I spent some time in a hospital as a kid and know the comfort of having your own stuff. People say in hospital the same way they say in love, because you really are different when you’re there, that is, if they keep you, which means they think you need help, which is nice of them to care about you that much.
I put on the fancy purple jogging suit I never have reason to wear, then removed it to change my underwear and put it back on. I brushed my hair twenty times on each side. I pulled his greeting card from under my pillow, closed it in a book then placed it in my bag.
Greeting cards have messages that say what you really want to say but don’t want to write yourself because that would mean you had to really mean it. If someone hates what a card says, or doesn’t feel the same way, then you can just say: Sorry! I picked the card at random! Or if they really did like it, and you can tell, then you say: I spent hours reading ca
rds until I found the perfect one just for you! And they know how you really feel about them. Really, they’re a win-win situation.
After hours of reading at the dollar store, I picked one that said Love is in the air! inside, with a picture of two teddy bears on the front riding in a biplane with hearts painted on its wings. But I wanted to really express myself this time, so inside I wrote more:
Dear Paramedic,
You saved my life! (Just kidding) But I just wanted to say you are the best and most caring paramedic on the force (are you a force?) and I appreciate everything you did for me. I’m very interested in getting to know you better. Coffee? Airplane ride? (more kidding) Maya
I didn’t write my phone number because I didn’t want to be pushy. We’d probably write them down on a piece ripped from the envelope—this way we would be more spontaneous.
Got everything? Sideburns asked when I came out.
All packed, I said.
Can you make it to the ambulance?
I think so, I said.
On the way out through the lobby, I saw Marvin, an elderly man who lives in my building, sitting in his chair. His eyelids droop so much that wet crescents of pink are visible always. I’ll be back in a few days, I said, feeling like a movie star with my entourage, an imaginary animal fur twining around my neck, but Martin didn’t once look up from his racetrack papers because he is a certified compulsive gambler as well as the nastiest person on two legs.
The sun made me woozy and I asked the ambulance driver to take my arm.
Up you get, he said, and boosted me into the rear of the vehicle.
I lay down on the stretcher. He threw a white cotton blanket over me, which at first I wanted to kick off then realized I needed when the doors shut and the air conditioning kicked in. It felt dangerous to be wearing my shoes in bed even if it wasn’t a real bed. The old guy was driving and I prayed he wasn’t one of those old people who’d rather maim someone or kill himself than admit he couldn’t recall the rules of the road anymore.
Are you going to strap me down?
The Beggar's Garden Page 1
